He looked at the sandwich with distaste, then looked back at Jake. “And—by the way—you mean b’hatzlacha, not mazel tov. Mazel tov is for happy occasions.” It figured. He hated bean sprouts.
The airport was crowded with people wailing to flee the country, grandmothers with paper bags full of possessions and arms full of children, business men with their laptops and cell phones, young mothers with infants sleeping over their shoulders, tourists whose vacations had been abruptly cut short. Foreigners, David noted; almost all foreigners. The Israelis weren’t leaving.
Every few yards was a soldier in full battle gear, submachine gun at hand, restless eyes scanning the crowd. Disembarking from the planes were mostly students who had been studying abroad. What little conversation there was was muted and purposeful: What unit are you with? Think they’re really serious, or are they just blowing hot air? Do you have a pickup? He could hear no idle chatter.
It reminded him of his own service, twenty years ago, doing the military duty he’d needed to put in to keep his dual citizenship. It had been fun, in its way. The old soldiers had talked endlessly about the Yom Kippur War, which back then hadn’t been so far in the past. They had an attitude combining tough masculinity with self- deprecating humor. They themselves had taken their jobs seriously, but while David had served, they had faced nothing more than thrown epithets. And in his off time he and Yossi had wandered the streets of Jerusalem, finding beauty equally in the narrow stone streets of the old city and in the cafes and high-rise apartments of the new.
The airport was more modern than he’d remembered, but then, it had been more than twenty years since he’d left. He hadn’t been back since.
From the airport he called Yosef, whom he’d known for years. Yossi was a companion from his military duty days—his best buddy, back then; Yossi had been smart, and athletic, and irreverent. “I’m a Jew by heritage, an atheist by choice,” Yossi had declared, and the two of them had defiantly found every restaurant in the city that served (not on the menu, of course) ham. They’d gotten along fabulously. Yossi had stayed with the Israeli defense forces, while David had gone back to America, first to graduate school, and then staying on in a series of postdocs and eventually an untenured research professorship. They’d kept in touch, mostly by e-mail these days, and when things started looking like they would get bad, he had told Yossi that when his service was needed, he would be there, and Yossi had in turn promised that there would be a place for him.
When David called, he found Yosef was already in the Kiriya, where an emergency meeting of the defense command was under way.
David made arrangements to meet him at the Defense Ministry early the next day, and found a hotel room off Ibn Gvirol Street. On the short walk from the corner where the bus had dropped him, he found a crummy, run-down restaurant, Yin-Yang Chinese Villa. There was time to kill. Without bothering to look at the menu, he sat down and asked for moo goo char shu, forgetting for a moment that he was no longer in America, and, miracle of miracles, they even had it.
The briefing room was small, spartan, and windowless. Stale smoke from half a dozen stubby, filterless cigarettes overpowered efforts of the tiny ventilation fan to clear the air. The men inside didn’t notice the stale air. “So it’s certain the Saudis are going to strike?” asked the prime minister.
“Yes.”
The minister drummed his fingers against the table top. “And they are conducting their attack as we expected? From the staging area outside Aqaba?”
Our agents have heard no indication of a change.”
“And the rest of the Arabs?”
“Mobilizing, but so far staying out. Waiting to see, I’m sure. But the Saudis will be bad enough, I think.”
The prime minister turned to another man at the meeting. “What about the Americans? Will they help?”
“No. This time, they’re leaving us strictly alone. The Saudis have been long-standing allies of theirs; they’re playing this one, as they say it, strictly hands-off. We can’t count on any support at all.
However, our own people in America stand behind us, as always.”
“In that case, we have no choice but to implement plan Aleph. Preemptive retaliation. Hit them first, hit them hard. Destroy their attack before they start.”
“I’ll notify the task force immediately,” said Yosef Abrahms. He had risen quite a way in the army since the day long ago when he and David had fought side by side. “What target date?”
“Sunday. We will make the final dry run Friday, get a day of rest, and hit them early Sunday morning.”
“Roger.”
“So the Zionists think to attack Sunday.”
“That is what I have heard, my commander.”
“Then you have served well, Asim. None other than you could have so well penetrated the secrecy of the Israelites. You have done very well, indeed. And you shall be fittingly rewarded.”
“Thank you, my general. I do but the will of Allah.”
“And so shall it be. We will have a surprise. We will wait until they have all gathered together, and then strike on their Sabbath, when they’re unprepared. We will not be defeated!”
Asim saluted. “So let it be.”
David stretched muscles that had grown sore under the rigor of military drills. Discipline was tight at the training camp. So far it had been only drills, but tomorrow morning at dawn, strike team Aleph would stage a full- scale practice attack against team Bet, a last practice for the coming strike.
Walking through the camp, he came upon Yosef. He saluted.
“At ease, soldier. Nervous?”
“Not yet, sir. Ask me again right before the attack.”
Yosef chuckled. “So you’re a biologist now, I hear. What happened, you decided you didn’t like computers any more?”
David shrugged. “I still work with computers.”
“They should have put you with an Abach unit.”
“I asked for the front.”
Yosef clapped him on the shoulder. “In this one, I’m afraid everywhere will be the front.” He chuckled again. “So, I say, maybe you should be nervous today, soldier.”
Did he know anything? “No. I never get nervous until the day before. Last minute jitters.”
“
“You know me, Yossi. I don’t go around shooting my mouth off.”
“Then I will tell you the best-kept secret in Israel. The mock attack tomorrow will be the real thing. The Sunday date is a ruse, a little something for the Arab informers we know are in the camp. At midnight we will issue live ammo, and the helicopters will be waiting. And so it starts. Only three people know this. Now, including you, four. Are you ready?”
“So, why tell me? You seem quite confident I’m not going to talk it around.”
“I know you. And, I just felt like I had to tell somebody.” He shrugged. “Nerves, I guess. I’m not so iron- blooded as I like to pretend, sometimes. Why not you? Now are you nervous?”
“More than you could know, Yossi.”
Yosef Abrahms looked around in despair, shivering in the cold desert night and trying to ignore the stench of diarrhea that permeated the air like the smell of rotting meat. It was nearly dawn, and there were only a very few men left standing. The camp was almost unprotected. The tanks were still loaded in the transport planes, ready for
